10
The next day was a total nightmare. The lie kind of built on itself and the longer it went on, the more difficult it became to set things straight.
‘We’ll talk this out today,’ Zoë whispered before she went off to Biology and I went to Maths. But the end-of-school bell came without us having had the chance to set the record straight with Miss P, the principal, or any of the girls.
In fact Zoë and I didn’t really get to speak until we were at the bus stop that afternoon.
‘You’ve at least told Jason the truth, haven’t you?’ I asked.
‘Not exactly!’ Zoë frowned. I could see clusters of guys coming towards the bus stop from the boys’ school.
‘But you promised you would tell him,’ I said urgently.
‘For God’s sake, stop whining!’ she said in a way that revealed she was more than a little worried herself by now. But she was already waving at Jason.
‘Okay then, you got us into this, so how do we get out?’ I demanded.
‘I don’t know, Di. I just kind’ve lied to Jase last night on the phone and it all came to life as if it’d really happened. And now I don’t know what to do about it!’
‘But you said you had an idea—a master escape plan!’
Zoë suddenly started laughing and, I’ve got to admit, I did too. Hysterically. We were still laughing when Jason and his friends descended on us.
‘Hey, you two hot journos. We hear you have some big news,’ Sam McNally said.
Jason had told everyone in the boys’ school. The crowd was more admiring than ever.
Maybe it was because they all gathered around Zoë; maybe it was because I was jealous that Jason put his arm round her shoulders; maybe it was because nobody there seemed the least bit interested in my part in the interview—the fake interview. Whatever the reason, I found myself blurting out a confession.
‘Zoë, stop it now, we didn’t interview any princess! She said hello and that was all. There was no interview!’ I felt my face flushing as all eyes turned to me for a moment.
‘Who’s the princess, now?’ Zoë spoke nastily as our eyes met. Her expression was terrible as if I were no more than a worm. I found myself stammering, ‘What I really mean is …’ But she turned away from me and towards the group. ‘Princess Diana told us she was planning a holiday with her boys, that’s Will and Harry, in Disneyland and …’ she rattled on.
The group closed in around her as though I didn’t exist. I stood there for a moment feeling helpless, worthless. Obviously Zoë’s lies were more interesting than the truth. Forgetting the bus, I turned away abruptly and took some pleasure in plodding all the way home in the heat. I raged inwardly at Zoë every step of the way. But within an hour of my arriving home, the phone rang and it was Zoë, apologetic.
‘I was a cow!’ she moaned. ‘Never speak to me again, Di! I don’t know why I said what I did to you. It’s just that you kind of took me by surprise. I couldn’t get out of it and I was surprised that you …’
I couldn’t forgive her. Not just like that, but nor could I find the energy to be angry. A dumb childish rhyme was going through my head, ‘Liar! Liar! Pants on fire!’ and what would be the point of saying that?
‘Di, are you there? You’re being very quiet.’
‘I better go now,’ I said. But I thought, I’m a loser in every possible way. I can’t even tell the truth convincingly. I can’t even stand up to my friend and tell her she was a cow and the worst liar around!
Before I hung up I remembered something else that had been worrying me.
‘You still have the disc with the assignment on it, don’t you Zoë?’
‘Yes,’ she answered too quickly.
‘Zoë!’
‘Well, Selma was so keen and her dad’s just going to cast his eye over it. No harm!’
I felt like hanging up on her. ‘Shit Zoë, you better tell Selma tomorrow or I will! In fact, tell everybody! We’ve got to hand something in and we only have one more day.’
‘Okay, okay,’ and Zoë was gone.
It wasn’t a good night. Babs and Martin were away on holidays and bloody Marcus hovered. He kept coming into my bedroom to taunt me.
‘Fancy yourself a hot-shot journo, do you?’ I was really worried he knew the truth because he called me a Liar Bird, Mad Cow and other charming names not really printable. And why should he do this tonight of all nights?
‘You better take down her mug shots,’ he smirked. ‘For a start, she’s a loser princess. But worse than that is the contrast between your face and hers, shit, it makes me wanna puke!’
‘Get out, bastard! Now! Right now!’ I’d screamed so loudly that it frightened even me.
He left but slammed my door so hard the house shook. Then Graham appeared.
‘Look, Diana, I know you like your privacy but it won’t help to keep goading Marcus the way you do!’
‘Goading him? Give me a break. It’s Marcus who …’
‘Yes, goading.’ Graham looked really angry. ‘Marcus has told me about the nasty things you say to him when you get the chance. And I’m fed up with it. He might be difficult sometimes but you better watch that sharp tongue of yours, Miss Moore. Even if you do have problems, you don’t have to spill them out all over this house!’
I flung myself on the bed after that, too mad to even write about this in The Diana Papers, too tired to cry. And too hopeless to try to set the record straight with Graham.
What was the use of anything? Marcus was always one step ahead in this house.
If the Diana interview hung over my head like a big black cloud, the privacy issue at home was just as bad. Worse. I looked around the room. This was my space and I wasn’t going to have Marcus or anyone else bursting into it. Not ever again. I calmed myself down and then I went to Graham’s study. In the most reasonable voice I could summon, I said, ‘I’d like to have a lock on my door, Graham. I really need my own space.’ I made sure not to even mention Marcus. Graham never really holds onto his anger and he looked up from his work and smiled vaguely. But that’s also the trouble with Graham—he never follows anything through. He may have forgotten his anger of a few minutes ago, but he was also pretty unsympathetic about the lock.
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea right now, Diana.’
‘What do you mean right now?’ I asked, my face burning with the effort of keeping my voice down, but then I just couldn’t help it. ‘Your son gives me no privacy whatsoever! And a lock would keep us apart,’ I burst out. I looked hard at him, appealing to his better nature. After all, it was no secret Marcus hated my guts. Graham had broken us apart more than once. Marcus often took to punching me if he couldn’t win an argument, and I had learnt to give as good as I got. Plus Graham had heard more than one or two of Marcus’s snide remarks.
‘It’d make for more peace in this house,’ I said. I was desperate.
Graham just turned back to his papers, where he always hid, and mumbled into the computer screen, ‘No Diana, not right now.’
‘Not right now’, meant that he thought I was ‘unstable’ or whatever word he had used when he complained to Babs about my ‘mood swings’ and ‘depression’. No doubt his discussions with Ingrid weren’t helping my cause either. Clearly, ‘unstable’ equals no right to privacy in Graham’s world. As if I were a child or really crazy.
I went back to my room and cursed weak old Graham and his shit of a son as I stacked things against the door so that Marcus couldn’t get in without a struggle.
I stayed in my room for most of the night but of course I eventually had to go out to the bathroom, and this gave Marcus the opportunity to leave another of his ghastly ‘calling cards’. This time he’d gone to a lot of trouble. He’d ‘arranged’ my clothes on the floor. My favourite shirt was laid out with pink rubber gloves for hands; my pale blue jeans were folded out with a pair of sneakers for feet; at the top he’d arranged one of my caps, under which he’d put a hideous grinning monkey mask. Then he’d turn
ed off my light and waited.
I don’t know why it gave me such a fright but as I came into the room and turned on the light it looked like a dead body lying on the floor and I screamed blue murder despite myself. I could hear his chuckling from down the hall as I slammed my door.
I was so glad to see Babs when she finally got back from holidays. As luck would have it, Marcus was out at footy training.
‘What’s up sweetie?’ Babs asked as soon as she saw my expression. ‘School getting you down? Or is it Marcus?’
I poured it all out to Babs. I told her how badly I needed a lock for my bedroom and that Graham would never get around to it. I really wanted to tell her about the mess of the Diana interview too, but somehow I just couldn’t get it out, not even to Babs. The interview had been hanging over me for the past two days and it seemed to have taken on a life of its own.
‘I just want some privacy in my own room, Babs. Just time to myself without that ape barging in all the time.’
‘I had four brothers and our house was tiny. But I still had a room to myself at the end of a verandah and, well pet, it was my sanity. Look, I’ll tell you what. I’ll phone Martin and he can buy a lock for you this afternoon. You can wear the key around your neck,’ she chuckled, ‘just like I did. I’ll talk to Graham about it, don’t you worry, love. You’ve got a right to a bit of privacy.’ I hugged her.
It was music to my ears to hear Martin later that day drilling the door and putting in the lock. I prayed he’d finish before Marcus or Graham came home. But there’s always a price to pay when Martin does anything for you—you have to listen to him talking about his favourite subject, the Holy Bible. If Babs could take it (she agreed he was obsessive and even though she was a believer, it could get on your nerves), then I could. This time he gave me a lecture on why I should read the Bible every day.
‘You’re a good reader, Diana. You might just be surprised by what you find in the Good Book. Now look at this lock, works like a charm.’
I thanked him profusely as I tried the key and promised I’d give the Good Book a go. But I was apprehensive when he and Babs left. Graham didn’t know and hadn’t approved and Marcus, well, who knows what he’d do? I’d have to tell Graham about the lock straightaway.
Graham was rushed and distracted as usual. He just grunted when I told him that Martin had put a lock in for me. Maybe Babs had phoned him. Or maybe it was just that he had to get an important report finished. Then I told him about a documentary on Ancient Egypt our history teacher had told us to watch that night and for once he laid down the law to Marcus so that I could watch it. Amazing! I touched the key that was safely around my neck as Marcus stalked off, glad to get away.
The doco was really interesting. I wasn’t surprised that Marcus didn’t want to watch it, but I should have been suspicious about his lack of protest. What was dear Marcus doing while I was watching TV? He was busily unscrewing the hinges on my door!
‘A little surprise for you, Ugly,’ he gloated, coming down the hallway when he heard the thwack of the door hitting the carpet. His look said it all but he couldn’t resist rubbing it in, ‘You might think you can win with your high and mighty airs, Princess Poo, but you never will. Not in my house! So handle that, Ugly!’ and he laughed as he stomped on the door and kicked the handle.
Ugly! Like he can talk, he’s the ugliest person on earth when he speaks like that, with his piggy little eyes narrowed. I was so angry I wasn’t even frightened. I just shoved him out of the way and braced myself for a retaliatory whack on my back, but it didn’t come. He was too shocked, I guess. I walked right out of the house. His house, yeah right! At least the park at the end of the road was private. I stayed there for hours thinking about lots of things—the door, the Diana interview fiasco, Mum and, most of all, my future. It didn’t look all that bright. Not a glimmer of hope. Usually I’d try to jog it all off, forcing my legs when my muscles screamed for mercy, faster and faster down street after street, until I exhausted myself and my feelings. But tonight I was even too dispirited to exercise. I felt so low I just sat there in the park like a blob.
Graham came looking for me eventually. ‘You’d better come home, kid,’ he said in a sympathetic voice. ‘I’ve seen what Marcus has done and it’s not on. I’ll fix the door on the weekend, but the lock can’t go back on. The only doors we lock in our house are the exterior ones.’ I knew Graham hated screwdrivers and hammers and that the door would never be put on unless Martin did it. I felt utterly hopeless.
As we walked up the road together he surprised me by saying, ‘And what’s this about an interview I heard you and Zoë did? That’s a hell of a scoop if it’s true. Is it Diana?’
I didn’t answer him.
11
Dear Princess Diana,
This is to offer sincere, heartfelt and BIG TIME apologies for what happened. I’ve wanted to write to you for weeks but I’ve been feeling sick about the whole thing and so, so guilty. To tell you the truth, we’ve been in heaps of trouble, Zoë and I, ever since the Hammond Zeigler TV affair, that I haven’t had the heart to do much at all. For weeks I haven’t even wanted to show my face to the outside world.
I’ve even stopped collecting pictures of you, I’m feeling so bad. I’ve apologised to every picture of you on my walls—all 217 of them—quite a few times. I’ve cried and I’ve even laughed, somewhat hysterically, I have to admit. But laugh or cry, talk or shut up, I feel bad, bad, bad!
And to top it all off, Babs is trying to get me to go to hospital for a while because I’ve lost so much weight. I’m not eating much and I’m feeling low in every way but I’m certainly not a nutcase.
Of course I don’t want to go to this miraculous treatment facility Babs is raving on about. Although sometimes I think anywhere would be better than here with Marcus. He’s having a field day over this Hammond Zeigler thing. He keeps calling me ‘ham-fisted and ham-faced and ham in the sandwich’, among less polite things I won’t bore you with.
As for Martin, well, he left a bible on my desk and said we could talk any time about truth and lies, love and Jesus. I don’t want to talk to anyone, not even to Babs.
I don’t want you to feel responsible in any way—heaven knows you have your own problems—but it was after the visit to the Carven building that you opened here in Sydney that things took a downward turn for me. Big time!
No doubt you’ve heard something of the Hammond Zeigler saga since it was on international television! The whole world knows about the ‘schoolgirl prank’ pulled by ‘two psychologically disturbed Sydney students’. It’s so unfair. It was just an ill-timed series of disastrous events.
I’d like to explain a few things to you from my side about how Hammond Zeigler’s name came to be linked with yours. I mean, it was my fault—our fault—but then again, it wasn’t.
Basically, Zoë and I are in trouble at school because we pretended to have interviewed you when we saw you at the Carven building in Darlinghurst. We were almost expelled. But worse than that, for me, was the fact that what we did ended up hurting you, when all I’ve ever felt for you is love and admiration.
After we’d had our joke about pretending to really interview you and written our fake article, with our fake new love interest in your life, Hammond Zeigler, I just wanted to set the record straight. Way back then—truly! But Zoë kept procrastinating because for a while we kind of became megastars at school.
‘You’ve actually spoken face-to-face with Princess Di? No way!’
‘Was she as gorgeous as she is in photos?’
‘What perfume do you think she wears?’
‘Does she have French nails?’
‘Do you think they were Prada shoes or Gucci?’
‘Did she have more than one diamond ring?’
On and on until I thought I’d scream, whereas Zoë answered everything convincingly and just seemed to love all the attention.
Zoë kept telling me she’d sort it all out but she didn’t. I don’t know h
ow many times I was on my way to the principal’s office to confess, when something or someone stopped me. It went on for three days. Then the Daily Telegraph got hold of the story, well, of the name Hammond Zeigler anyway.
You see, Zoë had given my copy of our interview to another student whose dad works at the paper. It was a coincidence that her dad, Lionel Fitzsimmon, was also doing an article on you. Maybe not such a coincidence since all the papers and mags were having a field day about your being here in Australia. Anyway, there was a mix-up and Lionel gave the subs our Diana article instead of his. That’s how our fake Hammond Zeigler made it into the paper and out into the world. Simple as that.
Worse was to come when we discovered that THERE IS A REAL, LIVE, FLESH-AND-BLOOD HAMMOND ZEIGLER! As you know by now, he’s a 55-year-old scientist who lives in Ohio. He’s married with four kids and has spent his life researching cows’ intestines! He’s not rich! He’s not handsome! He’s not very glamorous! And he’s probably ready to sue the pants off Zoë and me—or at least the Daily Telegraph!
It was our bad luck that the real Hammond Zeigler was at a conference in New York at the very same time you were there. Why that should give the press or anyone else leave to surmise things, I don’t know. And aren’t journalists supposed to check their stories thoroughly?
This real Hammond Zeigler found himself on his hotel steps surrounded by cameramen and reporters asking him about the nature of his relationship with you!
He was so stunned. I think his eyebrows disappeared into his hairline! Princess who? You almost had to laugh at the expression on his face when the press suggested he might be in a relationship with you. He obviously thought it was a crude practical joke and tried to brush them off. Big mistake.
I’m sure the look on my face would have been worth bottling too. When I first saw the whole thing on television I thought I’d have to kill myself! It was strange, the three of us—my stepdad, my stepbrother and I—were watching the news together because there were really bad bushfires just outside of Sydney and Graham had called us to come and see the footage. When the next news flash came up and I caught the name Hammond Zeigler, I nearly knocked over my stepfather’s prized coffee table because I stood up so quickly. I just kept saying over and over, ‘Oh my God no! Oh my God!’ so that Graham thought I’d gone mad—again.
Letters to a Princess Page 6
